In another life, we flew together,sheltered in the boughs of ancient bristlecones, rich with seed.Our voices rose, loud and raucous.But that was almost beyond memory. From the ground, I watch the flocks assemble on the wires, the stunted eucalyptus. They call to one another in a tongue I no longer understand.

Seeker of bright things, there is only one way back to harmony.With you at my back, like a quiver,I become a corvid angel, hunting nothing but the sense of flight,intimate with clouds and wind. My human bones are clumsy,far too heavy for this feat, yet I rise unencumbered on borrowed wings,adept in ways forgotten long ago.

I carry the raven up the hill with my sisterto the edge of The Forest of Heaven. I carry itstrapped to my back, to where I committhe memory of flight to dream. I once crossedthe sky and saw the village where they still makepaper wings by hand. They still bake theirbread with blood and the little girls must carry their knives ready to flay the giant hare.My sister thinks the village is magic, but sheis still carrying the raven with me to the edgeof The Forest of Heaven, past the river wherethe miller lives with his wives. If we don’t keepmoving, we are told we will end up as one of them. We don’t bring water. We look for springs along the way. We build a fireonly if we can start it with a fallen nest we’vefound. The song we sing at the end of the dayasks the spirit of The Forest of Heaven forguidance. It asks if we were not animalsyesterday, if we still linger in them todaywhen we must travel to the old brick cisternbuilt by gnomes and giants working togetherfor once. Their solidarity is rare, but it islegend. My sister and I must be carefulnot to let each other rest our ravens on the hillock of the damned. From thereit is three days more until we reachThe Forest of Heaven. When we have reached it, we will have done serviceto our clan and we may begin our long sad journey back to being humanwhere every day that we are alive we must be fully reminded of everything’s presence.